


Dry Spell

by Rez (lo_rez)



Category: Alias
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-28
Updated: 2003-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:20:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lo_rez/pseuds/Rez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sydney talks to herself. Sark interrupts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dry Spell

**Author's Note:**

> Set mid-to-late S2 as I was feeling my way into the characters. Unarchived elsewhere; notional sequel to the mid-S2 _Home Before Dark_.

The sun slips west. There’s no wind yet and the air’s still warm; she moves through it like a fast current in slow water—tranquil, strong, seeing only the ground under her feet.

She’s running the trail to the old calcite mine, weaving methodically and with a certain art over the loose rocks and dust that cover the sandstone. The silence of the desert and its lustrous, mauve-gold light have her skimming up the eroded slope in a state of egoless bliss.

A soft stutter in the middle distance brings her up short. 

—_One-one._

__

Her senses gather from their cosmic stretch to a tight, sharp focus. 

_One-one-one_—

She feels the dry air scrape her throat, feels a hard adrenaline edge cleave the laminar flow of perfect motion. 

_Nine rounds, five gone, four left—_

Her heart falters, clenched like a fist, panic just a hard breath away— 

Silence now. Her shuddering breath is all.

Nothing to do with her. Idiots. 

Her heart—

_No._ 

Nothing.

* 

She begins again, trotting up the slope. But the rhythm’s broken, her euphoria fled, gone. She stumbles, awkward on the loose stuff underfoot. It’s cooler now. 

She hears the scream of a hawk over the crunch of her stride and stops once more, searching the sky for a gliding cutout shape against the perfect blue. The desert swallows the sound.

No bird, no bird-shadow. 

*

Not a soul on the trail, not a four-wheel-drive vehicle fucking up the ecosphere for miles around. Her sat-phone’s at home; she’s off radar—off the case, if you want to know. Sydney’s been a bad, bad girl, and isn’t the desert the place for penitents—anchorites and crazies? Saint John and Nebuchadnezzar. 

Only she’s not sorry. And unless they’ve got her chipped or otherwise kinked, they have no idea where she is.

Sydney’s just fine with that. Though she wouldn’t put it past them. Not at all. 

Keep moving.

* 

—Jack Bristow is the motherfucking man. So to speak.

That’s right: Director Bristow. He says he’ll fire your ass next time you blink, your ass is slung; believe it. 

So Caplan got out instead of getting dead. So they got a dupe of the famous database—God, this Rambaldi stuff is starting to bore. Good work, Sydney, and your next bright idea will land you in Siberia, my darling daughter.

Would I lie to you? 

But Syd freelanced it anyway, one last truth-takes-time try at finding Derevko. Because, you know, Syd has issues. Almost as many as Jack does.

Result: Nothing. Gone, gone—Mama’s gone. 

So. Banished belowstairs.

Low-rent ops, dickering with thugs of dubious probity for scraps of even more questionable value. And screw that. 

*

The shadow of a granite outcrop looms over the trail. 

Last quarter-mile, the goal almost in sight: just a smooth brow of sandstone facing out toward Mexico, and you can see the holes where they sliced through the rock and took the calcite out of its matrix in big square chunks. Something about bomb sights, back in the forties, last century.

Her favorite trail, and it figures there’d be some link with secrets like that. An important truth about secrets: they all have expiration dates. 

She picks up the pace.

* 

—Black-hearted Jack, baby. Antifreeze where his blood should be.

“Given a choice, I’d have gone with her,” she’d said once, not that long ago. Imitating him, quiet venom and the puncture where it counts. He’d looked back at her with the famous curled lip, corrosive enough to peel paint. So she hit him again: 

“At least I’d be clear on the whole trust thing.” Trying whether she can make him flinch, hurt him as much as that alpha bitch, her mother. Seeing flat pity in his eyes.

No. 

But she’s over it now. Except for the part where he set her up in Madagascar, another volley in the shooting war he and Irina conduct in lieu of a reasonable conjugal relationship. Except for a few other things. Like the fact that he still runs her fucking life.

* 

The badlands: a million-acre maze of sandstone intaglio, arroyos eeling into each other and back out to nowhere. When the light slants like this you can see the banding, how the sediments were laid down all that time ago. She thinks she might want to live out here, some day.

Maybe some day soon. 

*

—Can you picture it? Spy Barbie, done up in housewife chic, not a wig in sight. Yes, the woman herself, unadorned: Sensitive Syd, the Widow Hecht—or near enough. Will Tippin’s gone-away dream, end of the line for Noah Hicks. Making dinner for Sir Galahad, green eyes and way too good to be true. 

Losing her virginity all over again, thrashing around on her bed with Michael Vaughn like a lovestruck teen; the sex strictly government-issue, but it felt like sweet heaven. How he breathed her name so intensely against her skin. How the sound of his voice alone almost made her come.

Once more for the cameras, please. And, of course, it’s out on video now. 

*

Someone’s beaten her to the lookout, how the hell? The other approach is from upslope, no way to stay hidden, and she swears she’d have heard anyone coming through the arroyo, oblique to her route. But what have we here. 

A seated figure, silhouetted on the ridge, ignoring the view in favor of the sightline down the trail, and she has a clairvoyant brush of insight. After all, what got her out here in the first place? Trafficking in souls. Dealing with the dark side. And hasn’t she been dreaming, lately, of that one time before, when she went willingly?

That one time before, with him; God, he felt good. But, of course, it only made things worse. And here he is. 

*

She climbs to within a few yards of where he’s sitting on the shadowed rock, hands clasped loosely around a bent knee, so elaborately non-threatening she almost laughs. She notices his boots: the same as hers, lightweight Vasques, minus the gaiters and the dust. The smooth voice slides into hearing, inevitable as brush-fires in August: 

“Agent Bristow. A lovely afternoon for a walk.” He looks her over—dusty legs, sweat-streaked hair—and adds, “The view’s quite spectacular.”

The Salton Sea shimmers in the distance, no bluer than his eyes. 

*

—Mama’s own blond bombshell. The Young Pretender himself, cool and sweet as vanilla ice, checking her out with unholy enjoyment. She looks back at him and thinks: yours, mine, and ours, Irina. 

She wonders if he ever told Irina about that one time. Maybe it’s a turn-on for him, bedding mother and daughter both. Hell, maybe it’s a turn-on for her. She’d be shocked but self-righteousness loses its punch, spread out over six million acres of desert.

She knows Irina pimps him out to Sloane when there’s something special on order. She remembers meeting his gaze across the conference table, that horrible day at SD-6—fresh from her first murder, only it wasn’t—and feeling the sudden touch of true damnation. She hadn’t felt that sick since Danny. 

And across the table: the frank invitation in his blue, blue eyes. With her father sitting just to his left.

Ah, well. Ah fucking well, Bristow. 

*

She reaches back, notes his watchfulness. Yes, she’s got a sweet little HK in a lightweight harness back there, but the water bottle is what she shows him. She pulls up the stopper and drinks, wipes her mouth. Looks him over some more. Wardrobe by Berghaus and Helly Hansen, just as you’d expect. Immaculate. She’s sweating freely through her ratty silk-nylon shirt, meanwhile. She drops the bottle near her feet, drops herself next to it. Grimaces at him with surprising good humor. 

“What?” she says. And she gets this:

“You’re tagged, Sydney.” He picks up the GPS unit sitting in front of him. “But of course you knew.” 

She holds out her hand, catches the toss. She plays back the record of the route she just took up the trail. She knows he’s watching, with his cool half-smile, as sudden scalding tears threaten, for an instant, to boil over.

But that’s just reflex. She knows what, and she knows who. She pitches it back to him. 

“I do now,” she says. Flat calm.

Back to business. 

*

She doubts he came all this way—however far that is—to rub her nose in small-time betrayal. She slugs back another mouthful of water, offers him the bottle. He shakes his head. She looks out at Mexico, there beyond the badlands. 

“What can I do for you, Sark?” Keeping her voice mild. She’s already figuring the way home, what she’ll do and what she’ll say. The Vasques were a gift, a special I-love-you. Just recently, in fact. A little token when the off-road hunt for Derevko came up blank.

“Any number of things, I imagine,” remarks her current companion, recalling her. He’s that uncanny thing, an intuitive man. She eyes him. It won’t do to forget that. 

He’s never been one for sidelong glances; he gives her the treatment, full-on cobalt-fission stare sinking right into her and stopping somewhere in the middle. She exhales silently. Discipline, that’s what she needs.

“And in particular?” she says, patience fraying into something else. The azure eyes flicker down to her mouth and back up again, a double jolt of whatever it is he delivers, every time. She doesn’t need the reminder, but he’s giving it to her anyway. 

He says, softly but clearly: “One-one-four.”

A brief silence. His eyes glint in the soft brilliance of the late-afternoon light. 

“One-one.”

A corner of his mouth curls up. 

“Zero. Zero.”

She holds her breath waiting for the punch line. 

“East.”

And he’s done. Except for the part where amusement dances through the blue stare, inviting her to look away, concede the game, and her heart is slamming because it’s been a long, dry time since she had her mouth against his satin-cream skin. They’ve traded fire since but she’s been careful to miss. 

Isn’t it always the way? Even blind Milton couldn’t resist; his Satan’s a handsome bastard, too. And he hadn’t taken the devil to bed.

* 

“You’re missing the lat,” she points out, purposely flatfooted, wanting the rest of it. She’s feeling the need to move. It’s two miles back to the trailhead and the sun’s getting low.

“Thank you, Sydney, yes. That is the problem, isn’t it?” 

She waits.

“We thought we might pool assets,” he says, “since the Agency clearly has superior access to the kind of massively parallel computing resources needed to solve the puzzle.” She sighs. Rambaldi again. 

“You want the latitude,” she guesses. “You want all the likely latitudes, based on the longitude and some positional analysis you’ll provide once we’ve established good faith.” The blue gaze approves.

“And then you’ll give us the rest of it. The arc-seconds, the zero-zero.” He doesn’t actually smile, but there’s the suggestion. 

“Acute Sydney. Yes, roughly.” She gets to her feet.

“God, you people are boring,” she says, unpremeditated. “I wanted to find her, you know. I tried. So they shut me down, kicked me off the Rambaldi detail.” She smacks the dust out of her shorts. 

“But I’m over that. Sure, I’ll deliver your message—when I get back.” She looks down at him. “Is that it?”

He’s silent a moment, sweeping her head to foot with that extraordinary stare. She hears the hawk again, warning scream. 

“The transmitter,” he says neutrally. She freezes. “I can take care of it, if you like.”

Well. That’s polite—or devious, of course. 

“Thanks,” she says. “I can manage.” But he adds:

“And take you back, if you prefer.” And she hears, in the distance, a rhythmic growl. 

The decision’s surprisingly easy, even at the cost of letting him see a few scars. She’s a lot tougher than she used to be. And she hitched her way out here. She won’t be getting back any time soon, otherwise.

“Thanks,” she says again. “I’ll take you up on that.” And she bends down, while he watches, to strip off the desert-weight gaiters and unlace the boots that kept her so sure and light-footed on her way up the trail. She’s standing up in her stocking feet when the Bell 407 lands on a slab of rock a hundred yards distant. She covers her nose and mouth against the swirling dust and follows him, stumbling and footsore, through the propwash and into the helicopter. 

She leaves the boots on the edge of the lookout, toes pointed toward Mexico. Maybe somebody else can use them.

* 

“Sydney,” she hears, his voice distorted by static through the headset. “Where?”

He’s in the copilot’s seat; she’s payload. “Palomar,” she says, and they lift, pivoting nose-low till they’re oriented. He turns back to the pilot. The sound from the headphones vanishes; he’s switched her out. 

She straps in. There’s an ungainly-looking bundle next to her seat: the life raft. If they had to ditch over water, it would be her job to wrestle it out and hold onto it. She wonders if anyone’s ever actually succeeded in doing that. The desert falls away below.

* 

—She’d left him, that last time, for a long sleep in her cool bed. She’d slept the clock round, ignoring the phone.

And the next day, a farcical, predictable, painfully clichéd confrontation: 

Hard green eyes, hard scowl—but Michael Vaughn is breathtaking, in any state, always has been. Long hands clenched around each other, rigidly in place, not—not—_not_—touching her.

Starting off with this: 

_Syd_ _?_ _ What’s wrong? _

_What happened? Where were you?_ 

Nothing. Nothing. Nowhere.

And ending here: 

_Oh, God. _

_Oh my God. You’ve been with someone else.  _

_Haven’t you? Haven’t you?_

_You’ve been with someone else._ 

But they cobbled it back together somehow. He’d smiled, when she unwrapped the Vasques. _For running rough_, he’d said, with his crooked, heartbreaking smile. Like a blade slipping sweetly right through the ribs. It’s funny how things happen.

Because neither of them will ever forget it, of course: she’d been with someone else. Who’s talking to the pilot, currently. 

It’s a short ride. The aircraft rocks in the thermals as they approach the mountain.

* 

They gentle down to the surface of the observatory parking lot; dust swirls. He turns back to where she’s sitting, takes in the fact that she’s not moving, that her harness is still fastened. She removes the headphones, replaces them on the hook behind her. Looks back at him.

The truth is this: there’s always a point, somewhere in the middle of any space between the two of them, where the air starts to crackle. It’s just a matter of choosing to notice. Before they took off, he’d let his hand linger against the inside of her wrist, light, subtle touch as he pulled her into the pod. She stares at him now, expressionless. 

He says something brief to the pilot and pulls off his headset.

* 

Her bike’s at the far edge of the lot, boots and jacket still behind the tree where she’d stashed them. She gives him the helmet. She’s rented a cabin at the campground down the mountain, the lone guest midweek, off-season.

It’s an electrifying trip, his hands spread at her waist, the only thing she’s aware of the whole way back. 

*

She slings the jacket into a corner of the cabin, shrugs out of her harness. She’s finding the atmosphere a little close, though he’s leaning against the far wall, watching idly as she clatters around. He’s raked his hair into wild curls after pulling off the helmet. Finally he says:

“Sydney?” Damn the man and his fucking British accent.

“Yes?” 

“Are you going to kiss me?” The smooth voice is casual but it takes two to make the air this tense. She gives herself a good look at him, finally, sees the appetite in the cool blue stare. She takes a breath.

“Maybe. For the next hour or so.” She remembers again the look he gave her across the table, that day at at SD-6. This one is like that. He says: 

“What happens after that, Sydney?” Softer now. Her heartbeat is shaking her, slightly, head to foot.

“Oh, it’s your turn after that,” she says, and why is she so nervous? She’s done this before, after all. 

He hasn’t moved a muscle till this very second. But he’s definitely coming toward her now.

“Sydney?” So softly. 

“Yes?” Closer now.

“I really think you’d better get started.” 

His mouth, her mouth, so good—

* 

Not like last time. He’s pushing her tonight.

“You have no idea,” he tells her in that smooth voice, “whether you have any limits at all.” 

Tracing idle patterns in the sweat at the small of her back, holding her still; ruthless hands, ruthless man. She’s spread for him, abandoned and mostly willing, but fighting to keep some small margin of autonomy.

“—You’ve never even begun to test them.” 

As she defends another boundary, struggling, and he coaxes or teases or outright shoves her past it.

_Like this, Sydney. No, I won’t stop. _

_That didn’t sound like “no” to me, Sydney._

_Oh, Christ. Sydney—_ 

And she’s with him, every time.

* 

It’s still morning, but only barely, and she wakes to the mutter of crows outside the cabin window, and his arm reaching over her from behind. He slips his hand between her legs. She’s raw and swollen but he touches her lightly, expertly, and she feels a sharp, pleasurable throb go up her spine. He’s hard and ready, pressed against her sleep-warm body.

She stretches, laughs in a low, morning voice. 

“You’re insane,” she says. “There’s no way.” He hooks a leg over hers, holding her still.

“There’s always a way,” he says softly. But she taps his busy hand with a warning finger, and he lets her go. She turns over on her back, eyes closed; stretches against him, yawning. 

“Maybe I’ll write it up for the tabloids,” she says. “’My night as a sex toy for a known terrorist.’” She traces a lazy line up his thigh. He seizes her hand.

“Hard-hearted Sydney. Who’s toying with whom?” He sets his teeth against her palm, pressing his tongue into it, hard. 

He learned last night about that spot, what it does to her. Learned a lot, but taught her more. Insisted. She’s feeling uncomfortable in more ways than one. Because why would he do that? It was different from last time—too different. And now he’s at it again. He bites down.

She laughs, breathing a little deeper, but pulls away. Looks at him in the daylight. Her belly tightens. He’s gorgeous, such a beautiful liar. 

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what’s going on,” she says.

His eyes are a pure and heavenly blue this morning. They shimmer with amusement. He looks down at himself, back at her. A slow, infernally suggestive smile curls one corner of his delicious mouth. She has a sudden fit of laughter, completely unable to help herself. He rolls onto one elbow, pulls her closer, puts his mouth to her ear. 

“I require a steady diet of Bristow women,” he says, “or I lose my edge.” She gasps and really loses it this time, can’t stop laughing. He leans back, apparently pleased. “I believe I’m safe for at least 48 hours now,” he adds, “except—” and he pulls her over till her thigh bumps up against his very healthy erection “—for one small thing.”

She refuses to make the obvious remark. 

“Greedy,” she reproves him. The blue’s more like slate now, darker and harder.

“Mm.” 

He leans, takes one quick and very dirty kiss, forcing her mouth open against his. And lets her go.

She licks her lips. He’s unbearably tempting. But she really is too sore, in spite of the hot, insistent ache that’s threatening to swamp her all over again. And she’s still wondering why he pulled out the stops that way, last night. And why he’s turned on the charm, this morning. As if he can feel her distrust. 

“I think,” she remarks, eyeing his curving, swollen lips, “that you should—help yourself. For once.”

Some ferocious thought half-closes his eyes. He pulls her into another fierce kiss—she remembers that from before, how he couldn’t get enough of it. That, at least, seems real. He shifts, pulling her closer. 

She pants a little against his mouth because the truth is she’s a junkie for it too. In reply, he pulls on a handful of snarled hair till her head goes back, and kisses his way down the curve of her throat. She feels his smile when she can’t suppress a quiet little moan. He pushes her away, provocative, inviting.

“Wicked Sydney,” he says. “Only if you watch.” She sits up, smiles slowly in return. She trails a hand up his belly, feels the muscles bunch. Hears him take a long breath. He’s hoping she’ll give in. Like hell. 

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” she says, and it’s really damnable that she’s so used up. She thinks he owes her for that—for several things.

She stretches, in case he needs any extra inspiration: hair wild, mouth swollen, skin marked all over, like his, from last night. He closes a hand over his erection, looking at her, and begins a slow, rhythmic stroke. She shivers. 

Time to go.

“I might disappoint you, I’m afraid,” he says in his smooth, lazy voice, as he watches her crawl out of bed. “It’s very possible that you’ve ruined me for anything less than Sydney herself.” 

She doubts it. He’s doing fine, as far as she can tell. And now she’s fascinated with his delicate sense of timing—she’s noticed this before, with men, how there’s a syncopation, a fast-then-slow lilt that seems to come naturally when they get themselves off. She licks her lips again, hears him sigh. Damn.

“Don’t hesitate to—interrupt,” he adds, while she watches, thinking maybe she’ll learn something. But she’s getting lost in the raw sight of him handling himself the way he’d handled her last night: Same light, nuanced, expert touch, the gentleness merely the obverse truth to the violence just underneath. 

How that felt, last night. She wants him again, badly. She knows he can tell.

He shifts, stretching, breathing deeply, and his hand moves a bit faster. He looks her in the eyes, challenging her, a gleam of laughter in the lust-darkened blue gaze. But only a spark. He’s deeper into the moment now, wanting her. 

“Stay awhile, Sydney,” he coaxes. “Help me …” And he closes his eyes, arches his back, sighing, as he strokes deliberately, showing her how it would be … His fair skin glows in the hot noon light falling through the window.

She’s got to go. She’s really going to regret it if she doesn’t. And she’s just not going to give him the satisfaction, that’s all. She looks away. 

She jams random stray clothing into her backpack, checks the weapon, reaches for her jeans. Pulls them on as he watches her through his lashes. The sound of his breathing makes her heart slam uncomfortably.

“Come here, Sydney,” he says, on a long breath. “—At least let me look at you.” 

He’s slowed the rhythm. His head is back, left arm bent behind it; the heavy line of his shoulder from that angle is enchanting. And what she really wants is to sprawl next to him and bury her face in the hollow of his arm, anything for another hit of his scent. She closes her eyes for a second. His voice again:

“No—leave it—“ As she starts to fasten the jeans. She looks into the blue eyes, draws a shaky breath of her own. If that’s what he wants … she pulls the leather jacket on over her bare skin, hears his breathless laugh.

“Cold-blooded Sydney,” he says, voice ragged. “You’re leaving me again, aren’t you?” As he takes himself closer to release, stroking faster now.

“Yes,” she says, and she really does want to make him sorry, a little, because he was too intent, last night, on overwhelming her, and she wants to know why. She moves to the bed and he makes a low, delicious sound, looking up at her, reaching for her. She eludes his hand, shaking her head at him. 

“I have a message to deliver, remember?” She does up the straps around her wristbands, deliberately. “No, don’t stop,” she adds, keeping her voice low and slow, touching his tense right arm. His breath hisses through his teeth.

“Kiss me, then, Sydney?” he says, but the look in his eyes says he knows she won’t, couldn’t stop if she did. 

His creamy skin is filmed with sweat. He spreads his legs luxuriously, turning toward her, his hand still firm around his swollen cock. The wrist fascinates her; it’s thick and strong and supple and she shudders, watching him begin again, with more art now, carefully, because he’s close, very close. The curving lips are taut, the blue eyes stormy, looking at her, fallen angel, infernal beauty.

She wishes she could tell him how perfect she finds him but she doesn’t think he’d like that. It’s a pity. 

Instead, she slips a hand inside her jeans. Between last night and this morning, she’s wet as the rainforest. Another shudder as she grazes the sweet spot between her legs, just barely. She could easily come; she knows he knows it. But she won’t give him the satisfaction. He’s had too much of her already. And held back too much himself, one way and another.

“—Sydney—God—” his voice low and strained, watching her. 

He’s getting close to the edge and truly, the look in his eyes is enough to give any sane woman pause, if only she were one. She puts her wet fingers to his mouth, draws the fingertips over the curve of his lips. She reeks of sex.

He licks his lips. Seizes her hand with his free one—presses his mouth to the palm, inhaling hard. 

“Come with me, Sydney,” he says, rough-voiced, and she leans over, brushes her mouth along his cheekbone to his ear, and lets him feels her body-heat, close, but no contact, above his chest.

“In my dreams,” she whispers to him, ambiguous answer to his double-edged demand, and closes her eyes as he pulls her down and comes hard over his fist, his other hand so tight around her arm she knows there’ll be another bruise. 

And as he shudders, silent, lost for an instant, she reminds him, voice low and intimate in his ear:

“Some things are simple.” 

*

His eyes lock with hers, feral and clear. He’s stopped breathing, chest and belly constricted, barely clear of the stress of orgasm. She stares back, knowing his memory’s remarkable. Eidetic, she heard once. The blue gaze is devouring and fierce. Yes, he remembers. 

“Are we even?” Her quiet voice releases him. He inhales on a gasp, feathered lashes hiding his eyes for just an instant.

He lets the question float for a moment, but the words come out, finally, clipped and soft. 

“We bloody are.” It’s not what he wants to say. “Stubborn bloody Sydney.” He frees her wrist.

A small victory, considering last night. But all her own. She reaches down without looking away and takes his other hand, raises it to her mouth. Puts her tongue to the hot, sticky palm, holding his gaze, tasting him again. Puts his hand gently back so that it rests, half-open, on his belly. 

“I’m played out,” she says. “Out of the picture, if you like. But not a traitor—not yet. I hope you’ll tell Irina.”

She buttons the jeans, does up the jacket while he watches, pulls on the boots. She picks up the backpack and heads out the door. 

*

She knows none of it would have happened if she’d been clean, no tag—if he hadn’t seen those tears well up so briefly. Sark smells opportunity the way a Mako smells blood, and he’s a true genius at exploiting it. 

And he—or Irina—still wants her on the team. No point in letting him—or Irina—think she’s an easy mark. Though she may be. She really doesn’t know.

Because it’s equally true that she’s been waiting, all this time, for another chance at him. 

She unsnaps the helmet, wheels the bike down the curving road till the cabin’s out of sight. Reaches a leg over—God, she’s sore—and turns the key. Helmet on, rev it once, and she’s on the way. He’ll call in his ride and be out of there in no time, she’s betting. She paid the bill yesterday, added an extra day, in case.

The R-1’s the fastest road bike on earth and the cambered curves of this smooth mountain highway are perfect. She lays it over the centerline again and again, reckless, not caring. 

He wanted something, she’s sure of that—there’s never an end to his schemes, to Irina’s.

Her own part is simpler: Old betrayal, new faces. Old pain, new blood. She was tainted the day she was born: she’s complicit in both, guilty in both. She knows it. 

So it’s back to her own familiar nest of vipers; back to the gutter she calls home. Compartmentalization, that’s the thing.

She’s an expert, by now.  

*

_[end]_


End file.
